A man in a charred shirt is being led down the street by soldiers in camo. He’s barefoot, his hands bound with wire. People stand in family clusters all along the route to the hanging tree. You want to scream, but, of course, that can’t happen. A sudden breeze riles the leaves. The next thing you know, parents are naming their kids after guns: Kalashnikov, Markov, Remington. The sun keeps showing up regardless.